Monster Heart

 

Pass the talisman to me,

and I’ll tell you my heart.

 

            *

​

In the ballroom a couple

in their 60s swayed together,

eyes locked on each other

as if they were boats adrift

in a sea of arms faces legs

flickering octopus bodies

in the Sunday morning light.

I wanted to be one of them

like the man I loved would’ve

had he found a deeper ache

in the shipwreck of his heart.

Can anything be salvaged?

Can anything? Ever?

 

            *

 

My heart’s an anchor.

I can’t reel it back up. Too heavy.

 

            *

 

In that moment of awful grief

the weariness of my soles,

the tiredness of my shins,

the numbness of my ass,

the stiffness of my shoulders,

the gutness of my throat

pushed up, a flaming rocket

against the sky

of my cavernous voice,

exploding my message in a bottle

into a million pieces, scattering

shards and ashes among the waves.

 

            *

​

Listen and be my witness.

My heart doesn’t know how to survive.
 

            *

​

In my horror films there is no him.

It’s only me now. I am a sea monster.

My soul is a bucket of saline.

The sea is mucky with kelp.

Fishing ships cannot wade through.

The dull green scales of my heart

shimmer dead in moonlight.